Cooking

In the kitchen,

electric suns and a scorched

rain roiling up from the metal

crust like the flood Noah would

not have survived.

Hungry, I still turn away

from the last few seconds

of deserved and unearned life.

My life lays over me like a bib.

What bullets does it block

from my breasts?

Through the window,

filthy afternoon trudges in

from the rails like a hobo.

Every table in the dining room

is set to the music of

scoundrels naming their children.

From the kitchen,

streaming remnants of

finish lines.

Of Clowns and Flowers

The blooms along the

pearlescent highway have something to say.

Something hard, heavy, fragile as

a newborn Monday.

Pastel clowns zoom past me in minivans,

with children in the back,

their desperate faces pressed to the glass

like cling wrap.

There was a rehearsal for the

unification of everything,

but I could not find my third

piece among my things,

which found me tangy

and burnt like pie.

Bees drink the oily nectar,

imagine heaven swelling up

from the soil in a

prefabricated hive,

and something sweeter than honey.

The clowns roll past with

children ensconced in their nightmares.

Nothing is unified, but more

and more steel is soldered

together by errant bakers.

The flowers breathe,

begin to speak their piece.

Moths

When the man who makes moths

asked me what I thought of independence,

I told him it had already been cleared away,

a spill on aisle 90 of the syphilitic

warehouse on I-25.

There is a question in my purse

and an answer hiding in the

milk I won’t drink.

I bound my breasts and thanked

God for tension and pressure.

For his newest moths,

he asks me to raise orange lights

from the depths of my instincts.

But I have poured my instincts

like wishing wet water

into the mouth of a butterfly,

who even in the dark seeks

flowers on someone else’s estate.

Falling House

The melodramatic mansion

lurches oceanward over the cliff.

Lavish dead

pull the ropes.

The seashore’s children watch

with hope,

eager to be freed of those

patterned windows,

the eyes tuned to the frequency

of geometry.

In the elevator shaft,

a wind separated from the herd.

Prey waiting for pressure.

In the dumbwaiter,

relics of service.

The slippers in the catastrophic

laundry chute

are warmer than they’ve

ever been.

By the old hearth,

music divorced from the

phonograph.

Like a Rumor

Moonlight is braille,

pointed beams patterned for

hands with eyes.

 

On the prairie,

the hellbent train pierces the cool,

callous night like a needlegun.

The town will loop the gold

through in the morning.

 

Hands clasped as though to pray,

I cannot read that foreign,

bright light writing

on my cool, white face.

 

My hands are blind.

But the dark slips into my

ears like a rumor,

the utter loss that is my birthright.

 

 

This poem will be revised.

Downtrodden

Little screams flutter by

like so much cash at Christmas.

On the cold, creaking merry-go-round,

murder by centripetal force planned.

The walnut trees tsk.

Beneath the candy canes

doing flex time for the traffic lights,

melting slush with

the impression of honesty

imprinted by every boot over the crosswalk.

Schumann

Diagnostic rock stars

light the pink sickness

on my forehead

with the squeal of a spirochete.

I am sick.

The antibiotics climbed

the mountain

and blew away like ashes

at the top.

Who will I turn to

when the music stops,

perched on one screaming

foot in my box?

The seats in the crowd

are filled with the

whisperers.

On stage, the fully

realized monsters of

scientific sound.

Actualized mindfucks

who are going somewhere

because the conveyor

belt from the stage

runs only for them.

They see through me.

The extra vision in

my head a hammock

supporting the exhaustion

of my pine cone.

I have thoughts of lances,

of silver mercury

waiting for a cog rail

that sleeps.

I will take the mercury,

apply it to my forehead

like Ash Wednesday.

My Easter is on tour

with the band.

Grateful

The coordinates of my gratitude

are inestimable.

Somewhere on an earth of regret,

a small point of velour gratefulness.

The small seal

of my face

with the veritable scent

of a name

the size of a fall from grace.

Living at the bottom,

the detritus falls like

snow on the blanket

I never bought.

At the right latitude,

where it glides into

an unresponsive longitude,

the gifts given by the one

who burns my name as incense,

his arms draped in velour.